


First Bits

by Dragonsquill (dragonsquill)



Series: Building Blocks [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Baby Durins, Characters will be added as they appear - Freeform, Family Feels, Ficlets, Fluff, Gen, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-20 22:06:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2444834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/Dragonsquill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each of the members of the Company interacts with Fili and Kili as children.  Dangerous levels of fluff ensue.</p><p>This is a collection of short ficlets that ties into my young Durins series, <i>Firsts</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dwalin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [makarra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/makarra/gifts).



> [Blanket Permission Statement](http://dragonsquill.tumblr.com/permission)

Kili had been crying now for three years.

Or half an hour.

But it felt like the former.

Dwalin groaned and shifted the baby in his arms. At first he’d barely wanted to touch the little thing, images of Dis cutting off his precious family jewels if he dropped her tiny helpless son dancing in his head (in full color and with copious sound effects). His first plan had been to leave Kíli in his bassinet, where the baby had been sleeping peacefully at the beginning of this unexpected duty. As long as he didn't mess about with the baby, the baby would sleep, and all would be well. He only had to watch Fili, who essentially entertained himself.

Alas, Dwalin had been forced to lift the babe out when he started screaming an hour or so in, because Fili solemnly informed him: “I’m not ‘llowed to hold Kili if I’m standin’ up.

Well. He hadn’t dropped Kili yet, but the baby also hadn’t stopped crying to so much as breathe for what felt like hours, though he suspected it was closer to minutes. Dis had assured him the babe wouldn’t be hungry, having eaten just before Dwalin walked in the door. Dwalin certainly hoped that wasn’t the problem. He didn’t have the…equipment. To solve that particular dilemma. So he’d decided to try walking the baby, something Balin had referenced doing when Dwalin was an infant, generally to make sure Dwalin remembered which of the two of them was older and wiser.

This wasn’t meant to be his job. This was BALIN’S job, for just that reason. 

Balin had no right to be away just when Dis and her husband needed a babysitter.

“Shh,” he tried, though he wasn’t much of a hand at the noise and it came out as a sort of spit and garble.

Kíli finally took a deep breath, only to cry some more.

“You have'ta move him closer to your face, Mistah Dwalin.”

Dwalin stopped and looked down at Dis’s eldest, who met his gaze with serious blue eyes. The lad looked like his father, but those eyes were all Thorin and Dis. “My face?” he demanded, with more bark to his voice than he’d meant, but Fíli didn’t back down. Oh, no, he straightened his little shoulders and lifted his chin and said:

“Yes, sir!” like a tiny warrior.

Dwalin looked doubtful, but did as he was told, lifting his arms so that the tiny face was closer to his own.

Kili was a handsome babe most of the time, but at the moment his face was screwed up so tight he looked like an especially pissed off prune. 

“Say his name, Mistah Dwalin.”

Dwalin sighed.

“Kíli,” he rumbled in what he hoped was a baby-friendly way, but he was really more used to snapping at trainees and threatening to break kneecaps as needed than with talking to babies (the recruits always thought he would go through with it, though of course he wouldn’t; warriors with broken kneecaps were no good for anybody).

Kíli hiccupped.

And opened his eyes.

They were dark, dark blue in a way that meant they were changing colors. They’d be like Nali’s, he reckoned, a dark sort of hazel-

Two tiny hands reached out, grabbed his beard, and tugged.

Dwalin didn’t yelp, because Dwalin never yelped, but he did, perhaps, make a bit of a…noise. Of surprise. And certainly not of pain because _Mahal’s forge how could he pull so hard?!_

The fingers twisted and tangled, and Kíli’s mouth opened for what Dwalin assumed would be a truly ear-splitting wail-

And laughter bubbled out instead.

It was a warm, gurgling, silly laugh that startled a smile even out of Dwalin – at least until the brat pulled again, bringing tears to the huge warrior's eyes.

He’d faced wargs without tears.

And now this.

Thank Mahal no one older than six was here to witness his shame.

There was a scuttling noise beside him as Fíli scrambled onto a chair to see better. The little boy was smiling fondly at his brother as Kíli attempted to remove Dwalin’s beard one handful at a time. The teenie fingers were _kneading._

Did the baby think he was a cat?!

“Kíli likes beards,” Fíli informed him, much too late to do any good. Or rather, at just the right time, as Dwalin now realized he had been set up by a dwarfling barely past the toddler stage.

“Yes, well, he can’t have mine!” Dwalin shifted the small body to one huge hand and reached up with the other to free his precious face fur.

“He’ll-”

Dwalin regretted leaning forward to lessen the tension on his beard, foolishly thinking it would give him a better shot at freeing it from the baby’s evil grip. Because that meant his ear was so, so much closer when Kíli let out a high-pitched scream of severe disapproval as Dwalin successfully extricated one tiny handful of course black hair.

“Yeah. That.”

Dwalin was a dwarf who knew war, hunger, and strife. He had seen a dragon in person and wore scars from orcs, wargs, and human robbers. He was one of the greatest warriors in Erid Luin.

But being a great warrior means sometimes admitting defeat.

“If,” he asked carefully, “I let him have my beard, he won’t cry?”

“Uh-huh.”

Dwalin pondered this. “Uh-huh he will or uh-huh he won’t?”

“Uh-huh he won’t cwy any more.” Fili’s mastery of the letter r was shaky at best.

Dwalin sighed and looked into the once again laughing eyes.

“You win this time,” he muttered over Kíli’s delighted giggles and kneading fingers, “but don’t expect this sort of thing all the time. I’m a warrior, not a pushover.”

Kíli stuck a hunk of hair in his mouth and beamed happily and wetly up at him.


	2. Thorin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We travel back in time a bit to the day of Fili's birth.

Thorin did not consider himself an expert on babies. However, the circumstances of his role in life as heir apparent had made him an inadvertent expert on the aesthetics of babies. They were presented to him on multiple occasions, and he could still remember being a lad of 30 and the not-so-gentle nudges against his back, courtesy of his mother, to remind him to _always say something nice._

So when Nali approached him, practically beaming with pride, and placed a red faced, somewhat squashy baby in his arms, Thorin was ready.

"Beautiful," Thorin said, because of course that is what you always said, regardless of the baby’s actual attractiveness. This one still needed a bit of washing up.

"He is," Nali agreed, nearly glowing now. "And already a hint of beard!"

Thorin frowned and looked closer. He couldn’t say he saw much in the way of a beard, though the babe did have a head of thick curls which, Thorin suspected, would be blond like his father’s when he was all clean.

Freya had also told her son that it was considered good form to tell the parents that the babe looked like one of them. Given the hair, Thorin chose to say, “He favors you.”

Nali laughed. “I never know how people can tell with babies. They all look about the same to me!” But his expression when he looked at his son in his brother-in-law’s hands was another story. He adored this little double-handful already and was immensely pleased at the comparison.

Dis’s voice came from the next room. “Is that Thorin? Bring him in here.”

"But you’ve just-"

Dis made a dismissive noise that eloquently expressed her feelings concerning dwarf traditions. Females were meant to be secluded with their husband and infant for several days, communing with the mountain, speaking only in Khuzdul, as Thorin and Nali spoke now. But there was no mountain here, and Dis had little patience for traditions on the road. “I want to talk to him.”

Nali shrugged. “You heard the princess,” he said with a little grin. Nali wasn’t perfect, but he was wise enough to bow gracefully to his wife when the situation called for it. He swept aside the cloth at the opening to the midwife’s tent and ushered Thorin in.

Thorin, still holding the infant, said, “You look well, sister.” The words sounded stilted and formal, but the relief was real. Dis did look well, tired but rosy cheeked, the pallet all cleaned up, her hair and beard neatly plaited in twin braids over her shoulders.

Dis was fierce, loving, and strong, but she would not have been the first mother lost on the long road from Erebor, had it been otherwise.

She smiled at him and patted the cloth beside her. “Sit down and let me have a look at the two of you,” she said with a smile. 

Thorin did as he was told, sitting with his legs crossed on the ground as he had often perched on the edge of her bed when she was a child asking her big brother for stories. For a moment, she rested her head against his shoulder, her dark hair sleek against the rough work tunic he’d worn to the forge that day. 

"He’s to be called Fili.” She said, running elegant fingers over the tiny head, all topped with downy fluff. The babe turned toward the touch, straight little nose nuzzling at his mother’s hand as if he knew her already. “For Frerin, Dis, and Nali.”

Thorin was glad he didn’t start with the babe in his arms. “For Frerin?”

It was Nali, Nali who had never known Frerin, who nodded and said, “For Frerin.”

Thorin looked down into the infant’s -into his nephew’s- face properly. The baby blinked, his eyes the dark blue of most newborns, and the tiny lips parted in a yawn as he tucked his square little hands beside his cheeks.

He truly was a beautiful baby.

And he did look like his father.

Though perhaps his eyes would stay blue, and perhaps his nose was … a bit like Thorin’s. 

"Fili," he said quietly, "son of Dis," for as Dis was his connection to the royal line, so would he be known. Son of his strong, warm sister, and of her smiling, loving husband. 

And, in his heart, he knew, as he knew himself, as he knew that his heart could never belong to anything other than his people and their quest for a home: Fili, son of Dis, daughter of Thrain, Heir to the Throne of Erebor.

"Fili," he murmured, and the baby hummed softly as if in response, as if he heard the weight of years and responsibility and deep, awkward love in his uncle’s voice. "Mukhuh Mahal bakhuz murukhzu, Fili Disarson.”

_And all our people._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "May Mahal's hammer shield you, Fili, son of Dis."


	3. Bofur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wandering folk of Erebor are not always welcoming of strangers in their midst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right after [First Job](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1440466/chapters/3260336), Fíli is 22~15; Kíli is17~11.

Bofur, son of Kefur, arrived in Thorin’s Halls with his brother, cousin, and twenty other Blue Mountain workers recruited by Thorin Oakenshield to help open the mountain granted him by the other dwarf lords. The miner’s quarters were larger than he was used to and closer to the surface, which meant that he went from almost never seeing the sun or someone outside his extended family to being constantly surrounded by strangers who had known each other their whole lives.

Bofur, finally getting a chance to try something new after a lifetime in the depths of the mountain he was born to, should have _loved_ this chance at adventure, especially on the last day of the week, when he had free time to go to the market.

Noise, bustle, and excitement filled the halls every market day, and sunlight peeked through slits cut high in the mountain wall. Music played, dwarves called out for shoppers, and the aromas of fresh bread and roasted meat filled the cavern. It was a far cry from the dusty, dark traveling merchants of his childhood, appearing one or two at a time and selling their wares from their backs.

Bofur wanted to love it, but it was all, well, a bit overwhelming. Especially given the number of suspicious looks being sent their way by the still somewhat ragged and underfed locals.  
It’s hard to be friendly when everyone is glaring at you from the corner of their eyes.

"Hello!" 

Bofur jumped at the piping voice, so intent was he on taking in the market and ignoring the muttered commentary on his presence. It took some glancing about before he realized that he was looking too high up for that particular voice. He redirected his gaze down a tad to the dark eyes and tangled hair of a grinning child. “Hello,” he answered, then bowed. “Bofur, son of Kefur, at your service, young sir.”

The smile spread. “Kili! Son of Dis!” He bowed back -carefully, as he had a double handful of delicious-smelling meat in his hands that he obviously wasn’t willing to drop. That explained the mess of juice smeared on his lips and right cheek. “Are you one of the new dwarves? Uncle said there were new dwarves coming to the mountain.”

"Aye, that I am."

"Oh! You’re the first I’ve met! Hold on a minute."

The boy turned tail, trotting over to an older boy and thrusting the meat at him. The older boy rolled his eyes and said something that made Bofur’s new acquaintance’s mouth drop and Kili pulled a cloth from his pocket to rub at his face. The elder - _surely_ a brother, Bofur knew that feeling - gave a nod of approval, then stood and watched as Kili bounded back Bofur’s way. He wasn’t a big dwarf, perhaps 20, 22, to the lad’s 16 or 17, but he kept a sharp eye out as Bofur interacted with his little brother.

"Right!" Kili said, practically skidding to a stop. He straightened his slight shoulders and said, "I am Kili, son of Dis, and I would like to formally welcome you to Thorin’s Hall." Then he executed a proper bow, though the formality was ruined by a wide grin when he straightened. "Thank you for coming to help with our mines. Uncle says you’ll be a lot of help because our mines are kind of messy."

That was an understatement. The mountain had been an act of charity, born of respect for Thorin’s family line and for his missing father, King Thrain, but it had been a gift with many problems. The mines were old, long abandoned, and none too rich at present. 

Bofur didn’t say any of this, however, he only smiled. “Thank you. You’re the very first dwarf I’ve properly met here.”

Kili’s eyes widened. “Really? You should meet more people!” He turned and hollered, at the top of his lungs in a way only dwarflings of his age could manage, “FILI! FILI! COME MEET BOFUR!”

Bofur winced, even as the name set off a dim bell in his mind. Where had he heard the name Fili before? 

The obviously-elder-brother made his way over, grumbling about dwarflings and sighing. “Stop _screaming_ Kili, I was barely three yards away.”

Kili was unimpressed. “Fili, this is Bofur. He’s one of our new dwarves.” Then he tsked sadly and crossed his arms, drawing his dark brows together. The effect was strangely intimidating and adorable all at once. “He hasn’t been properly greeted since he got here. Sounds like a job for the great Prince Fili to me.”

Oh.

_Mahal._

The highest class person Bofur had met in his entire life before Bombur had told him the famous Thorin Oakenshield had permission to hire miners was his own mine captain. And now he was _chatting_ with _Thorin’s heir apparent._

Well. Life was certainly exciting in his new home.

Fili bowed, a little lift on the toes and his expression caught between careful serious and a playfulness Bofur had a feeling came more easily to him. “Fili,” he said, “son of Dis, nephew to Thorin. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

"Ah - and you," Bofur raced through a few options, "my prince." He didn’t suppose Fili was really _his_ prince, but perhaps in a few decades he’d be at home here.

Fili laughed. “Don’t listen to Kili,” he said, “in the markets, I’m just Fili, and he’s just a bratty mushroom.”

"Shut it, you oversized Turnip," Kili shot back in the friendly way brothers insulted each other. Then he elbowed his brother lightly and said, in what Bofur suspected was meant to be a whisper but which wasn’t anything of the kind, "I think some people are being kind of rude to them."

Fili frowned thoughtfully, and then smiled slowly. There was a slightly sly look to it. “Well then,” he said, turning that mischievous grin on Bofur, “how about a tour of the markets, courtesy of the royal brats?”

Bofur laughed, bowing extravagantly. “I would be most honored, young lords,” he said in his best approximation of the local accent.

It was apparently pretty horrible, because both boys laughed as they set themselves at his sides and started squabbling good-naturedly about where to begin.


	4. Dori

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Fíli (25~16), Ori (23~15), Kíli (20~13)_

Dori worried about his brothers.

It was practically a hobby at this point, or perhaps a way of life. He'd lost count years ago of the number of dwarves who had mistaken him for Ori's mother, and had stopped correcting them when Ori was still a babe strapped to his back as he went about his day. Yes, that made worrying about the pair of brats more a job than anything else: the kind that didn't pay.

Nori, of course, caused him the most trouble, supporting the family in his particular fashion, occasionally running afoul of the law and one or two guild masters, flirting with this and that dwarf with a dangerous mate. He was _used_ to worrying about Nori. Compared to Nori, Ori was a sweetheart, even if his imagination and his mouth got away with him sometimes (obviously Nori's fault). Ori was usually polite and sweet, and he had an adorable face, so Dori didn’t often have to fuss over him.

Then Ori found a new and exciting way to worry him: he became a student of Balin, son of Fundin, who was also the tutor of the young princes, Fili and Kili.

The little _hooligans._

Ori was a young dwarf of manners and substance. He did not go tearing through the markets, playing tag and chattering to strangers and generally making a nuisance of himself like some young dwarves Dori could name. Far be it for Dori to say anything negative about the royal family, but-

If those young troublemakers did anything to upset his Ori, good manners and careful upbringing be sent right off to Melkor and his minions. He could spend a night or two in the cells with Nori. It'd give him a chance to lay on the guilt that Nori didn't come home and see their Ori enough.

And so, Dori worried (even if Nori did call him a fussing mother raven who needed to “give the lad some breathing room!”).

Ori sometimes let his mouth get away with him (big for his britches, as their dearly departed grandfather would have said), but this was usually reserved for Dori's ears. Occasionally, however, he would say something to other young dwarves; dwarves who were invariably a bit bigger and a good deal broader in the shoulders than Dori’s narrow brother. 

He heard the fight before he saw it, as he and Ori were separated by several vendors when it all started.

“Watch your tongue, weakling!” snarled a too-familiar voice; it was Mora, the daughter of Lord Jurin, head of the textile guild. She was a bully if ever there was one, and one they couldn’t afford to anger. 

A spitting noise, and Dori was already pushing his way through the crowd, muttering polite excuses even as he practically lifted one female from his path and set her to the side. 

“I didn’t say anything rude-”

“You shouldn’t even _speak_ to me, you little nobody! Useless _orphan_!”

Dori saw red.

But then-

“Is there a problem here?”

That voice he knew too. Everyone knew it, the somewhat arrogant, slightly high voice of Thorin’s heir apparent. 

“No problem, Prince. We were just talking to Ori here.”

“Were you now?” Dori elbowed his way past the last obstacle-and came to a halt.

Ori was sprawled on the floor, a hand to his cheek but glaring up defiantly. Mora stood over him, backed by three of her equally worthless cronies, and just beside them stood Fíli and Kíli. The elder brother had his hands on his hips and a quirk of a smile around his mouth. The younger looked fit to kill. 

“Yes, sir,” Mora said. She was bigger than Fíli, a good five years older and he was short for his age. “Just taking care of some business, but it’s done now.”

“Business?” Fíli flicked a look between them and slowly crossed his arms. “What sort of business ends up with one of you on the ground?”

Mora shifted, suddenly nervous. “He fell-”

“Because you _pushed_ him!” piped up Kíli, his eyebrows thunderous. Ori was between the two in age, three years older than Kíli, two younger than Fíli, but taller and thinner than both. “You hit him and then you pushed him! I saw you do it.” He stomped forward, even as his brother reached out a leisurely hand to hold him back. 

“Did you?” Fíli’s mouth was smiling but his eyes were hard. “Did you push him down? That’s no way for a lord’s daughter to behave.”

“He’s just a merchant’s son,” Mora muttered, “he doesn’t even have parents,” Ori winced at this, and Dori nearly moved forward, but something kept him still and partially hidden behind a rug merchant’s cart, something in the princes’ eyes, “and he thought he could talk to _me_.” 

Fíli watched the noble dwarf’s daughter for several beats before he took a deliberate step forward and held a hand out to Ori. Dori watched as Ori’s eyes flicked nervously between the big bully and the small prince, but he reached out and took Fíli’s hand in a firm grip. Fíli all but lifted him to his feet. 

“Ori,” the younger prince informed Mora, “is _my friend._ ”

“And mine,” Fíli agreed, “even if his handwriting’s ten times better than ours and he can conjugate Khuzdul correctly every time-”

“-which makes us look bad-” Kíli added.

“-he’s still our friend. And that means,” Fíli lifted his chin, managing to make it look like he was looking down his nose at someone a full three inches taller than him, “he is under royal protection. Therefore, he may speak to whomever he wants, whenever he wants, about whatever he wants.”

Dori watched as Mora gulped.

“So you can just be on your way,” Kíli said, and made a little shooing motion with his hands.

Ori, meanwhile, was staring at them, the bridge of his nose bright red as Mora and her fellow lower-nobility brats grumbled apologies and hurried away. 

Kíli frowned and reached out, dusting Ori off. “Are you all right Ori?”

Ori’s voice came out as an adorable squeak, “I’m fine!”

Fíli grinned. “Good. Hands aren’t hurt?”

Ori frowned and looked at his hands, long and narrow for a dwarf. “Um. No.”

“Excellent!” A friendly arm settled around Ori’s shoulder, and Dori watched his little brother’s ears turn pink as well, suddenly shy. “Because Balin will have our hides if we’re not back in time for afternoon lessons, and since you’re his favorite, we’d like to deliver you in one piece.” He grinned.

There went the pink on the tip of Ori’s chin. “You didn’t…you didn’t have to do that, my, ah,” he stumbled over the correct address, “my prince.”

Kíli stared at him. Fíli didn’t, he just started navigating them through the crowd, that protective arm in place. “Of _course_ we did,” the little prince exclaimed. “You’re our _friend_!” He paused. “And not _just_ because you help with my translations. That’s only a bonus.”

Dori watched them go, something warm and unfamiliar, a little sad, in his chest, as he watched his Ori being led away by two young hooligans with warm smiles and chattering voices.

Maybe he didn’t have to worry so much after all.


	5. Nori

Dori was sick.

Dori was sick, and both his brothers knew it.

“I can talk to Balin,” little Ori offered, his brown eyes wide and worried. “I’m sure he’d help.”

“No. We don-” Dori this time, his words interrupted by a long coughing fit that shook his sturdy frame and intensified the flush of color in his otherwise pale face. 

Nori took advantage of the lull to get a word in edgewise, “If you think he could get some of that brew of Oin’s the nobles have been using-”

Dori’s voice was rough, but firm (the stubborn cuss), when he growled, “We don’t take _charity_!”

“And we don’t have _money_!” Nori growled right back, but Dori couldn’t be persuaded and of course, _of course_ , Ori listened and promised not to go to his tutor or the princes. 

Of _course_ he did.

And once Ori made a promise, he always clung to it like a pointy-nosed little burr.

Illness was extremely rare among dwarves. They were strong and hardy folk, who didn’t go down with the sniffles every five minutes like Men did; this was due in part, of course, to the stone in their blood and the fact that they lived safely ensconced in mountains and not out in the elements. It was a well-known fact that there’d been more illness in their decades on the road than back in Erebor. 

Rarely, however, illness did catch and spread through even their strong bodies, and this one had been raging for over a month. There hadn’t been a lot of deaths – just a handful, miners mostly, who went to work ill and collapsed on the job. But there’d been enough.

There’d been enough.

Oin, eldest of the sons of Groin and cousin to their prince, was the chief healer of the royal family and other assorted nobles. He was considered something of a genius when it came to mixing potions and poultices, and there was a special tea he made for any of the nobility who became ill that had kept every single one of the useless richies alive and well. It was expensive to make, or so the richies said. Nori wasn’t sure he believed it. More likely, they were hoarding it just in case this illness of the chest didn’t blow over, and they were in danger for an extended period of time. Diseases always hit the old hardest, and a lot of the nobles were old, indeed. Old and useless compared to shift leaders and guild assistants of comparable age.

_Well,_ he thought viciously as he thought of Dori forcing himself out of bed to go to the shop, because unlike _some_ dwarves, his family could starve from a day of work missed, _we’ll see about that._

Nori knew how to move around the mountain unseen. His profession – and it was a profession, no matter what Dori grumbled, even as he set food in front of their baby brother that came through Nori’s efforts (Dori wouldn’t eat it himself but even his fussy, pedantic elder brother wasn’t above anything that put food in Ori’s bottomless pit of a stomach) – was one of cleverness and stealth. He had both in rich supply. 

Which was why he’d only been caught and arrested three times in a career spanning several decades.

Now, he entered through the back of Oin’s apothecary in broad daylight, slinking along the wall and quietly picking the lock on the main door. Robbing inside the mountain was no small feat, but Oin’s apothecary was near the market area, situated on a quiet hall reserved for nobility and with an unheard-of total of three entrances.

_It’s not really stealing,_ Nori thought as he slipped through the door, _if you desperately need it._

There’d been a time when he had to remind himself of this daily. Those days were long past now. 

There were bottles and canisters throughout the back workroom, and Nori could hear voices through the heavy curtain leading to the main room. He couldn’t quite make out the words – sometimes he missed the days when everyone lived in ramshackle shacks clinging to the side of the mountain – but he held a sharp ear out for any indication that one of the richies on the other side was coming closer.

Oin labeled his bottles, which was a relief, but his handwriting was atrocious and some of the titles didn’t make much sense. Nori snarled under his breath as he shuffled through the remedies in search of one with a name that suggested it was for those horrible, hacking coughs that kept them all up the night before – Dori coughing, Nori lying awake in the dark with a frightened Ori along his side as they listened to the wet rattling sounds.

He was tired.

So tired that it could almost be an excuse that the curtain dividing the workroom from the front swept aside without his knowledge. But it couldn’t, not really, because lives were at stake and now-

Nori froze when he heard the slide of boot against stone. Then his head snapped to the side, and his hand to the dagger of his belt.

A boy stood between the separated fabric of the curtain, small, fair-haired, and unmistakable.

_Mahal’s balls,_ Nori cursed internally, even as he slowly removed his hand from the hilt. Threatening the prince’s heir apparent was a crime that carried the death penalty, not a few weeks in the well-appointed jail deep in the mountain as petty thievery might. 

Stealing was better. He could go to jail for stealing. But who would take care of Ori, when Dori was so ill?

Something sick rose in his chest as he met the startled blue eyes of a boy just barely Ori’s senior.

Nori knew of Fíli, son of Dis, of course. Everyone did; she kept her sons visible, letting them go out and about in the markets instead of hiding them away as Dori claimed Thrain had done when he was a child in Erebor. He was a laughing, friendly lad, confident to the point of arrogance, but kind. Nori knew he was kind because he helped the elderly in the market, because he kept a sharp eye on his little brother, because he treated a lowly merchant’s boy as a friend instead of an interloper when his revered master took Ori on.

_Maybe, maybe there’s a way out of this._

Nori opened his mouth to speak.

The lad held up a hand and Nori, more fool he, obeyed the silent command.

Fíli studied him.

The conflict was there in his young face: confusion, then dawning realization, then a fierce downturn of eyebrows that slowly released as his blue gaze swept over Nori’s hands. They were so like the eyes of his uncle, their prince-who-was-king, and so like his cousin Dwalin, who Nori knew only through extremely unpleasant circumstances, that Nori felt pinned in place for a moment. The fierce scowl finally gave way to the brow unknitting, and another shock of surprise. 

_He knows who I am_ , Nori thought, and he felt a stab of fear for his baby brother and a welling of guilt for even considering using Ori’s name to get out of this. 

The prince’s suddenly intense eyes wavered a moment, flickered nervously around the room, and then settled, with a strange, adult intensity, on Nori’s.

He didn’t say anything.

He took one step forward, two, letting the curtain fall shut beside him.

Then he raised one hand (a small, delicate lad to come from such a tall family), and lightly touched a single tin. His gaze never left Nori’s, something challenging there.

Nori wondered who the challenge was for. He fancied it wasn’t him.

Fíli didn’t nod. He didn’t indicate he’d seen anything at all. He simply picked up a green bottle and turned on one heel with a strange sort of arrogant grace so typical of the royal line, and disappeared through the curtain. 

Nori grabbed the tin and ran.

~~~~

Dori was feeling better when Ori came home the next day, carrying a basket so heavy that carting it about made him pant for air. Nori chuckled as he took it. “How many times did you have to stop and rest on the way home?” he asked the weedy lad.

Ori shot him a dirty look. “Never,” he said proudly, but the fingers on his right hand twitched and gave away the fib, as they invariably did. The lad was lucky Dori didn’t know that tell as well as Nori did.

Nori didn’t call him on it. He knew a little something about being a stubborn pain in the ass, himself. He peered in the basket instead. “What’s all this then?”

“It’s for Dori.” Ori pushed on tiptoe to look in as well. “Kíli gave it to me,” he said, because Dori wasn’t here to remind him to _always say Prince Kíli, Ori_. “It has some red meat and a special tea in it, and some other stuff. He said his mother put a note in there.” Ori scratched the side of his nose. “I don’t know how he knew Dori was sick, but he was really worried. He said he’d ask Mr. Oin to come, if we wanted, but I told him Dori doesn’t like seeing healers.” He frowned and wiggled a bit. “I didn’t want to tell him Dori would say no even if Mr. Oin came, because we couldn’t pay him.”

Nori reached out and stroked a hand over Ori’s head, like he had when his brother was little. He looked at that earnest , narrow face, thinking of blue eyes instead of brown, of playful young princes and never-smiling kings, and how one might someday become the other. “That was a good way to handle it,” he assured his brother. “Come on, let’s see what we can cook up.”

**Author's Note:**

> Theses ficbits are dedicated to Makarra here on Ao3, for being a wonderful internet neighbor. 0_~
> 
> [Blanket Permission Statement](http://dragonsquill.tumblr.com/permission)


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